


And Then He Went and Moved to Battersea

by thecatcherinthefandoms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Gen, Parentlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:55:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecatcherinthefandoms/pseuds/thecatcherinthefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're cooking breakfast? Really?" she inquired as she passed him on her way to get a glass of orange juice.</p>
<p>            He glanced over and wrinkled his nose at her in return. "The Killers? Really?"</p>
<p>            Sage glanced down at the band insignia her T-shirt bore and rolled her eyes. "Are you sure you can handle it?" she continued, gesturing towards the griddle where he was industriously flipping pancakes as she took a swig of juice.</p>
<p>            "Is their name derived from the effect their music has on its listeners?" Sherlock fired back, unperturbed.</p>
<p>Parentlock. Sherlock has a teenage daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dinner and Detention

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first time ever uploading a fanfic, and it would be really super helpful if you guys could leave your opinions/suggestions in the comments. Thank you in advance, and I hope you like it. Oh, and thank you so much to MuggleHobbitses for being my beta.

            "Sage, not again."

            Sage hung her head, more for effect than anything else, and sighed, looking up again. "I know, Uncle Mycroft, but they were being annoying again."

            "I realize that the other children do not always treat you...kindly, and that fifteen is a difficult age to be at, but really, you must learn to control yourself."

            "All I gave him was a nosebleed."

            "Regardless," her uncle responded, although a smile flickered across his face, almost too fast for Sage to see.

            Shaking her bangs out of her face, she asked, "Are we done here?"

            Mycroft sighed. "Yes, I suppose so. A car is here to take you home."

            "All right. Have a good day, Uncle Mycroft."

            "Well, I shall attempt to, but considering the Parliament meeting later..." Mycroft trailed off. "Have an excellent afternoon," he concluded.

            His niece smiled and exited the spacious office to find the car outside.

 

 

            "Did he try to get you to spy on me again?"

            "Why would he do that? He already watches you constantly, or so I'm told."

            "I never put anything past Mycroft," Sherlock Holmes observed calmly, looking up at his daughter from the microscope he had been using. "I see you had a spot of trouble at school again." It was intended as a statement, not as a question.

            Sage merely stood there silently, waiting for her father to finish making his deductions.

            "There were three of them," Sherlock continued, scrutinizing her. "They surprised you, but you were able to fight them off. Although you will have a black eye within a few hours."

            "Are you done?" Sage sighed.

            "Mmm," Sherlock murmured, turning back to his work.

            Sage walked over and looked over his shoulder. "What are we looking at?"

            "I'm studying this bacteria's reproduction rate and its subsequent effect on a host," her father answered.

            "Ah. I'll leave you to it, then." Sage was used to entertaining herself. After all, when your father was Sherlock Holmes, the only time you would be attending a baseball game together was if it was to tail a suspect. Not that Sherlock let her help him all that much. As he put it, she was still in training. He mostly sent her on easier errands he couldn't be bothered to do himself unless he absolutely had to.

            She hadn't been worried about punishment. Sherlock didn't care if she fought with other students. He, more than anyone, understood how incredibly annoying and unbelievably stupid other people, particularly those her age, could be.

            She hadn't expected him to care at all, really. And this was why Mycroft took it upon himself to discipline, or at least scold, her; he knew that his baby brother wouldn't mind if his daughter invested herself in a few scraps.

            As she was on her way down the hall, towards her bedroom, the landline rang. Sherlock had refused long ago to be tied down by a non-cellular telephone, but then Mycroft had ordered it installed while Sherlock was away. Sage paused in the hall as she heard her father groan and go to answer it.

            "Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I am the father of Sage Holmes. Who else's father would I be?" he demanded. There was a pause.

            "Yes, I am already aware of that. Please refrain from wasting my time if you can possibly help it."

            Another pause. "Well, she told me so."

            Then, "What business is it of yours if I punish her or not?" he asked, sounding extremely annoyed.

            "Oh, really? Suspended? I happen to know for a fact that three particular individuals assaulted my daughter, and not for the first time. She acted purely in self-defense."

            "Is that a threat? It won't work," he observed calmly. "Is this the principal of the school? Oh, you're the disciplinary officer. I see. Well, might I have a little chat with your superior? Thank you _so_ very much."

            "Hello, this is Sherlock Holmes. I'm assuming you are the authority figure in place at my daughter's school. Allow me to inform you that any attempts to bully either of us into complacency will be to no avail. My daughter acted as she did merely to protect herself, and any intimation otherwise will be thoroughly ignored."

            "My daughter's name? Sage Holmes. Yes, I'm aware that she has a record of violence, and I am also requesting that you take steps to prevent her personal harassment at your establishment, and preclude your staff from harassing both of us in our own home."

            "Ah, yes. Thank you so much for your time." As he hung up, Sage heard him mutter, "Moron."

            "You can come out now," Sherlock called to her mildly.

            Sage winced. He had known she was spying the entire time. She should have known that he would.

            She walked back into his study, to which he had returned after taking the phone call in their small kitchen. "What was that all about?"

            "The trouble you've gotten yourself into for corrupting the youth of your school with violence," her father replied absently.

            "I'm to serve detention, then?"

            "Yes, I'm afraid so. See if Mycroft can get you out of it."

            Sage nodded in agreement and hopped up onto the table, sitting and swinging her legs. "You laid it on a bit thick with your vocabulary, though. I'm not sure Principle Moran was quite able to follow."

            Sherlock chuckled softly. "That was the general idea. Usually I deal with these people by confusing them until they simply give up on trying to talk to me whatsoever. I suppose it is a good thing Mycroft had that landline installed. Otherwise I'd have them calling my mobile incessantly."

            "Mention that to him the next time you see him, will you? I'd love to see his face," Sage countered.

            "I'll make sure to do that," Sherlock said, returning to his work.

            Sage wandered into the kitchen in search of a snack, glancing towards the phone. Seventeen un-played messages. Sherlock was notoriously awful at checking the landline, so it mostly fell to her to sort out which ones were important, such as ones from Mycroft (which her father often deemed unimportant anyway), or clients who hadn't gotten ahold of her father's mobile number, from the ones that didn't matter, such as solicitors or cases she knew he would never waste his time on.

            As she rummaged in the fridge for an apple, she saw something scribbled on the notepad beside the phone. Giving up on her search for something remotely edible, Sage reached over and grabbed the pad, reading the message as she did so.

 

       _Call from J. Watson, Monday, 11:32 AM. Return at convenience._

 

            "Dad, what's this all about?" she asked, bringing the pad into the study.

            "What?"

            "This J. Watson character...is he John Watson?"

            "Yes, an old colleague of mine, used to work with me, moved away to Battersea or someplace ridiculous like that. You knew that."

            "Yeah, but I thought you didn't talk to him anymore."

            "I don't."

            "Well, it says, in your handwriting, no less, that he called and that you're going to return it when you can."

            "And you know who else called? Your school."

            "Yeah, I overheard, remember?"

            "No, not that," Sherlock said, gesturing impatiently. "Another time. They're badgering me to run some charity fundraiser event."

            "Oh, yes. Each student has to sell ten tickets to the dinner and Chinese auction the school is putting on in the gymnasium."

            "What an insipid idea," Sherlock said in disgust.

            "I agree entirely, but I still have to sell ten tickets."

            "Well, see if Lestrade wants to buy one. He's coming over for dinner tonight."

            "Work-related, I assume?"

            "Yes, he's going to tell me about a new case, and just generally chat about things."

            "Am I attending?"

            Sherlock glanced over at her, and then returned to his microscope. "I think you're old enough," he responded drily.

            "Okay. Fine."

            "We have to go to the shop, though. Not a scrap of food in the house."

            "Yeah, I noticed. You still didn't answer my question."

            "Yes, I did. J. Watson is John Watson."

            "Yes, but why did he call? And are you going to be seeing him again?"

            "You never actually asked either of those questions."

            "It was implied."

            "Yes, well, a lot of things are."

            "Dad." Sage tried to stare him down, which was quite difficult considering he wasn't actually looking at her.

            "Yes?" Sherlock inquired politely.

            "I thought the last time you saw John Watson was when I was a little kid."

            "Yes, it's been a little over eight years. Point being?"

            "Point being, why the sudden phone call? Why reconnect now?"

            Sherlock finally looked up at her and met her gaze. "Haven't the faintest. I haven't returned his call, as of yet."

            "Why did you two even stop talking in the first place?"

            Sherlock looked away and began to pace the room. "John got married and was no longer interested in working with me," he answered crisply. "I believe he's quite happy in his ordinary life in Battersea. I have no reason to see him."

            "But he was your best friend."

            "Friends are overrated."

            "What about Lestrade? He's your friend."

            Sherlock looked at her.

            "What?" Sage demanded. "He _is_ , even if you're too proud to admit it."

            Sherlock sighed. "I suppose you're right, but I obviously do not need John. I've been fine. Besides, now I have you." He beamed at her.

            "You don't have to fake emotion for my sake," Sage replied coolly.

            Sherlock dropped the smile, only leaving a small trace of it evident. "Regardless, I am glad to finally have someone around I can actually talk to."

            "Like father, like daughter," Sage muttered.

            Sherlock walked over and unplugged his microscope. "Come on, we need to go to the shop."

            "Dad?"

            "Hmm?"

            "Are you going to see John Watson? Or even speak to him?"

            Sherlock looked back at her, exhaling slowly. "I don't know," he finally admitted.

 

 

            "So what are we going to buy?" Sage inquired. The cab ride to the shop had been mostly quiet. Sherlock had been deeply lost in thought, but it was a better alternative to when he was bored due to lack of a case. The promise of a new one had made him quieter and more pensive than when his great mind wasn't occupied with tying up the loose ends of a homicide, disappearance, murder, suicide, robbery, or any of the numerous other crimes that perpetuated in modern London.

            "Haven't given it a thought. We could just get a made-to-order meal," Sherlock replied distractedly after she elbowed him repeatedly to get his attention.

            "Okay, that's fine, but there are some things I'd like to pick up." Sherlock nodded his silent agreement.

            When they arrived at the shop, Sherlock went off to pick out a meal that would require him to do the least amount of cooking possible, and Sage went to get some day-to-day essentials.

            "Okay, let's see–shampoo, shower gel, more hair ties, apples, cranberries, crackers, cheese, biscuits..." she muttered to herself, consulting the list she had brought along.

            When she went to check out, Sherlock was already done, holding a take-away bag and tapping his foot impatiently. He passed her his credit card and she paid at the self-checkout.

            "When's Lestrade coming? I mean, at what time?" Sage clarified, not giving her father a chance to make some smart-arse remark.

            "Eight o'clock," he replied absently.

            "That's a little late for dinner," Sage muttered.

            "He had to work late, I think," Sherlock replied as he hailed a cab. He always took cabs everywhere; Sage, on the other hand, preferred to ride her bike to school when she wasn't with him.

            "Oh. Okay. Did you tell him that John Watson called?" When Sherlock looked at her, she asked, "What? The three of you were all friends, right?" she added defensively.

            "In a manner of speaking."

            "And what is that supposed to mean?"

            "John–Dr. Watson–and I solved the crimes Lestrade sent our way, and then I would explain it all to them both afterwards. They missed the details sometimes...especially Lestrade," Sherlock mused.

            "Ah. You're being very cryptic today, have you noticed?" Sage inquired.

            "Am I?" Sherlock said absently, but made no further attempt at conversation during the trip home.

 

 

            "Sage? Sage!"

            "What, Dad?" Sage called, hurrying from her room into the kitchen.

            "These infernal noodles refuse to remove themselves from the bottom of this pot," Sherlock complained.

            Sage sighed. "Why don't you let me finish up?"

            "That would be greatly appreciated." There was a knock at the door of the flat, and Sherlock went to answer it. A moment later, he reentered with Lestrade, looking slightly peeved.

            "Hello, Sage," Lestrade greeted her cheerfully.

            "What's up, Detective Inspector?" Sage replied without looking up, preoccupied with saving the pasta that was to accompany their takeout meal.

            "Not too much. School going well?"

            "Oh, yeah."

            "She has detention tomorrow," Sherlock said, smirking.

            "Shut up, Dad. And I'm trying to get out of it," Sage added, glancing over at Lestrade, who was grinning broadly.

            "Mycroft again?" he asked.

            "Of course."

            "Right, well, when you've finished salvaging our dinner, I want to hear more about your classes."

            "All right," Sage agreed amiably.

            "But why? They are so impossibly dull," Sherlock sighed.

            "Yes, but they are important in my life at the moment, and play some role in determining my future."

            "What a shame that is," Sherlock sighed.

            "Someone's got to be interested, Sherlock, and Mycroft's got his hands full, running the government and all that," Lestrade pointed out.

            "Well, since you asked," Sage began as she brought the plates of food to the table, "my history class is going very well, as are my math and chemistry courses, but I'm having a little bit of trouble in English."

            "Well, Sherlock could tutor you, couldn't he?" Lestrade asked as they all sat down to eat.

            Sherlock raised an eyebrow and took a bite of chicken.

            Sage snorted. "Funny you should mention that. The last essay he "helped" me on, I got a C minus for being too critical of the author's work."

            "Oh, yeah? Why is that?"

            "It wasn't exactly one of Dad's favorite writers."

            "Their work shows absolutely no evidence of imagination or intelligence," Sherlock muttered, attacking his food.

            "So, yeah," Sage continued, turning back to Lestrade. "For chemistry and algebra two, he's a fabulous help, but for English papers, not so much."

            "Got it," Lestrade said, nodding to convey that he could both understand and commiserate.

            "Yes, yes, never mind all that," Sherlock broke in, gesturing impatiently. "How's the case going?"

            "Obviously not very well, or he wouldn't be asking for your help, now, would he?" Sage pointed out.

            Sherlock shot her a withering look before returning his gaze to the detective inspector, who was grinning widely.

            "Well, as Sage pointed out, things aren't going that well," Lestrade acknowledged. "It's a disappearance, and to make matters worse, the missing person is a child. There's absolutely no trace of her, no clues whatsoever as to where she went. At least, not ones we can find," he admitted.

            "Hmm," Sherlock said, steepling his fingers in front of his face and touching the pointers to his nose. "Address?"

            "She was last seen asleep in her home at 62 Wexford," Lestrade replied, consulting a small notepad. "A little before ten o'clock two nights ago. Her parents reported the disappearance the next morning."

            "Fantastic," Sherlock said quietly, smiling slightly to himself. Sage snorted and continued eating. Out of context, her father could seem almost evil sometimes.

            "I'll be out there tomorrow, say about nine?" Sherlock inquired of the detective inspector, who nodded his assent.

            "I'll come, too," Sage added nonchalantly.

            Sherlock inhaled to respond, but before he got the chance, Lestrade jumped in. "Oh, no, you won't. You have school–tomorrow's Friday."

            "Yes, Friday. The last day of the week. The least important one to show up for," Sage argued.  

            Lestrade shook his head firmly. "You still need to go. Education is important," he said, smiling ironically. "Besides, I'm fairly certain it's illegal, or at least heavily frowned upon, to bring a minor to a crime scene, Sherlock Holmes's daughter or not."

            Sighing in defeat, Sage slumped back in her seat and sullenly nibbled at her food. Sherlock's eyes darted to her, giving a look that she was pretty sure was meant to be sympathetic.

            "Well, thank you very much for the delicious meal, Sage, but I really should be getting home to my wife." Lestrade stood up and pushed his chair in.

            "You could thank me properly by allowing me to come to the crime scene tomorrow," she suggested half-heartedly.

            "Not a chance."

            "I'm not sure you want to go home just yet, Detective Inspector," Sherlock mused. "Your wife might be happier if you found a way to stay out a while longer."

            Lestrade looked as if he wanted to retort, but then thought better of it and simply reciprocated with a smile that was a bit too tight. Underneath the table, Sage kicked her father's leg, earning herself a slight frown.

            "Good luck in school tomorrow, Sage," Lestrade said, waving in farewell.

            She sighed melodramatically. "Since you're cruelly throwing me to the wolves, I can only promise that I'll try my best to survive."

            Lestrade smiled despite himself and turned to the other detective in the room. "I'll see you tomorrow, then, Sherlock."

            "Mmm." Sherlock nodded distractedly, still lost in thought.

            Shaking his head, the inspector let himself out. After the door closed firmly behind him, Sage made a rude gesture in that general direction. Sighing, she got up and began to clear the plates.

            "I think I'll go to bed now, Dad," she addressed Sherlock when she had completed that menial task. "As Lestrade so kindly pointed out, I do have school tomorrow."

            "All right. Good night," Sherlock said, turning and beaming maniacally at her. He then jumped up and retreated toward his study, no doubt to continue studying his bacteria culture. _Some kids have pets; I get an organic microcosm._ Sighing, Sage headed down the hall in the opposite direction, towards her room.

 

 

            In the pitch-black that she usually required in order to attain sleep, Sage lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She had tried to read, but failed, for once, to be drawn into the story of the novel she was currently reading. That was something that Sherlock had ingrained in her since infancy–read everything, or, at least, all the worthwhile stuff.

            Sage rolled over and fluffed her pillow, throwing her head back down on it in exasperation. Ever since she was about twelve years old, she had suffered from insomnia; reading was usually a good medicine, but tonight even that had failed. Occasionally Sherlock, who also didn't sleep much, could be coaxed from his work to watch telly with her, where they would both ridicule and point out the inherent inaccuracies found in the show they settled on. But tonight he was busy, and tomorrow he would once again be ensconced in a case.

            She sighed again as she realized that tonight's dinner was the last meal that the pair of them would be partaking in simultaneously for quite a while.


	2. Bands and Pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaah, I know it's been forever. When was chapter 1, December? Anyway, I was going to write/post this in January, but then I had midterms. And then February happened, and I wrote this...but I've only just now gotten around to editing and posting it. Hopefully after this my updates can be more regular, but I'm not going to be so audacious as to set a schedule or anything like that. Thanks again to the lovely MuggleHobbitses for being my beta.

            When her alarm went off at seven the next morning, Sage yawned and rolled out of bed almost immediately, looking forward to a hot shower. She emerged from her bedroom fifteen minutes later (Sherlock had emphasized from her very early youth the value of quick efficiency), wearing crumpled jeans that she was only fairly certain didn't have blood on them–she hadn't looked too hard. She proceeded on to the kitchen to find that Sherlock was, for once, preparing breakfast.

            "You're cooking breakfast? Really?" she inquired as she passed him on her way to get a glass of orange juice.

            He glanced over and wrinkled his nose at her in return. "The Killers? Really?"

            Sage glanced down at the band insignia her T-shirt bore and rolled her eyes. "Are you sure you can handle it?" she continued, gesturing towards the griddle where he was industriously flipping pancakes as she took a swig of juice.

            "Is their name derived from the effect their music has on its listeners?" Sherlock fired back, unperturbed.

            Unable to think of a suitable retort, Sage stomped into the bathroom. She poked at her black eye, which had fully blossomed overnight. She briefly considered making an attempt to cover it up with makeup, but considering that she had never had a mother around to tutor her in beauty product uses, she quickly decided that this would only serve to accentuate her injury. Grumbling to herself, she angrily flipped off the bathroom light and returned to the kitchen.

            Sherlock smirked at her, but, upon seeing the dark look she gave him, offered up a plate of food as reconciliation. "Pancake?" he inquired politely.

            Smiling reluctantly, Sage nodded and took it, seating herself at the table and proceeding to drown the small stack of flapjacks in syrup. "So what's up with your preparing a meal? Aren't you on a case now?"

            "Well, yes," Sherlock replied, unplugging the griddle and going over to the sink to wash his hands without looking at her. "But I don't think it'll take me that much longer to wrap up."

            "Mmm." Sage nodded understandingly around a mouthful of food. "But you're not eating," she pointed out as she sat down across from her.

            "No, I'm not," he agreed, fidgeting and looking away. She could hear his foot tapping out a rapid staccato beat against the linoleum of the kitchen floor.

            "Oh my God," Sage exclaimed, a slow smile spreading over her face.

            "What?" Sherlock asked sharply, his head whipping around to look at her. 

            "Could it be that the great Sherlock Holmes made a _thoughtful gesture_ towards someone else, just because he wanted to?" Sage wondered aloud.

            "Impossible," he replied immediately, keeping his face carefully blank. "I was merely looking for a way to occupy myself until you got up."

            "Ah. So the great Sherlock Holmes was _lonely,_ then." Sage hid her smile with another mouthful of food.

            Sherlock looked a bit irked by now, but uncharacteristically didn't answer her. Instead, he jumped up and rushed to the window, gazing out at the cloudy October morning that promised rain later on.

            "Waiting for someone?" Sage asked as she finished with the last few bites of her breakfast and brought her plate to the sink.

            "Hmm? Oh. No. No one at all."

            "You don't have to keep hiding things from me, you know."

            Sherlock turned to look at her, frowning slightly. "I'm not hiding things from you."

            Sage sighed. "Yeah, you kind of are. I know that shifty look that you get when you're thinking about something important but don't want anyone else to know what it is."

            Sherlock smiled slightly to himself. "No one's known me that well since..." He trailed off and turned back to the window.

            _John._ Sage silently completed the sentence for herself and crossed the room to stand next to her father. "So what are we looking at?"

            Sherlock gave her a careful, evaluating look, then turned and gestured to the left. "See that van? Parked across the street?"

            "Yes," Sage answered carefully, wondering why a car was proving to be so interesting. Probably someone had been murdered in it, or used it as a getaway vehicle, or perhaps as a platform for selling various substances of dubious legality.

            "It's been here for two full nights now, never once leaving that spot. I haven't told Lestrade yet, but I think it may be serving as a base for some kind of surveillance program," Sherlock explained.

            Sage snorted at how paranoid he sounded. "Probably just Mycroft again, if it's even anything at all."       

            Sherlock didn't reply, staring hard at the car for another minute or so. When he finally did say something, it was only to comment that "You should probably be getting to school now."

            Sage sighed. "Yeah, all right. You're sure that I can't ditch?"

            Sherlock shrugged. " _I_ would certainly permit it, but Lestrade would never grant you access to the crime scene. If tagging along was your ultimate goal," he added, eyeing her speculatively.

            "No, I'll go." Retreating to her room to grab her backpack, coat, and current novel, Sage muttered a string of curse words to herself, mostly pertaining to the levels of irritation regularly inflicted upon her by certain detective inspectors.

            When she reemerged, Sherlock had already vanished into his study. Poking her head in, she announced that she was leaving.

            "Have a good day," Sherlock responded without looking up, bent over his microscope once more.

            "Likewise." And then she was out the door.


End file.
